


Put the Load Right Onto Me

by Fickle_Obsessions



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies RPF, The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011) RPF
Genre: Breathplay, Caretaking, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Really mild breathplay, Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-25
Updated: 2012-05-25
Packaged: 2017-11-05 23:37:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fickle_Obsessions/pseuds/Fickle_Obsessions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris has something of a special skill when it comes to getting Tom to calm down long enough to sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put the Load Right Onto Me

**Author's Note:**

> So this is sort of only barely a complete thought. And is a weird gen-not-gen sort of thing. But. I like it. And hope that a few other people might as well. Title is from the lyrics of "The Weight."

Being labeled the “Tom-whisperer” of the Avengers cast was pretty much the last thing Chris expected when he joined on. It’s not that he ever truly believed that he’d be called “the heart of the cast” or “the highlight of the films” but he had half hoped for it. He doesn’t complain though, doesn’t much wish to be defined some other way. Certainly it’s better than finding out people think of him as “that no-talent Aussie” or anything worse. And he is glad not to be just the brawn - he’s heard enough about his size to last a lifetime - and of all the people he could have found himself being the go-to handler of, Tom’s all right.

For the most part Tom is navigating the challenges of the Avengers as well or better than any of them. There is no obstacle that Tom’s optimism cannot eventually overcome and the man feeds on love. He inspires it and takes it into himself and turns it into fuel to create more reasons to be loved in a process as natural to him as photosynthesis to a plant. The only caveat is there is so much love, so much attention, so much possibility right now that Tom can spend too much of his time in the stratosphere. There are week long stretches where he only sleeps four hours a night, but rather than turning into an ogre he keeps on smiling.

“I have an embarrassment of riches,” he always says when questioned. “How can I say no?”

But the reality is there are times Tom really should say no. Times when he’s on the verge of running himself ragged, mind willing but body starting to weaken. And you can’t trust Tom to figure it out and put the brakes on himself, not if Christmas 2011 is anything to go on.

So people start saying things to Chris. Subtle things that really aren’t that subtle.

“Tom’s practically swaying on his feet.”

“People are going to start accusing that man of a coke habit if he doesn’t come down from the rafters.”

“Has he lost weight _again?”_

It’s not like it takes Chris very long to get what they’re hinting at, and if he could fix it then and there he would. But there’s a time and a place for what he can do, and so the comments keep up until shooting is done for the day. Chris has to bribe and charm the wardrobe girls to help him beat Tom out of their suits so that he can slip into Tom’s trailer while he’s still being unlaced and unstrapped.

If he can do that it’s no trouble getting the ball rolling, all he has to do start talking about dinner, a drink, a movie. Tom never says no, but his “yes” doesn’t come with a knowing smile. If he knows what’s coming, it’s not on his mind. He’s off and talking about this restaurant they should absolutely try, this movie that he’s waited too long to see.

And after Chris only has to ask, “Back to your place for a bit, mate?” and Tom always agrees.

It’s Chris that says no, time and again. No to coffee. No to a DVD. No to listening to some good, new song. He’s got to be the one to take away Tom’s phone, take his wrist and pull him into the bedroom.

“You need to sleep.”

He pushes Tom down until he’s sitting on the bed, kneels down an takes off his shoes and Tom will still be talking, making arguments about how there is more he could do, and messages he should return.

Chris nods and says, “Yeah, mate,” but he’s standing and taking off his own shoes, shaking off his jacket. He pushes Tom down even further, holds him down against the mattress while he climbs up onto the bed with him. On any given day Chris and his trainer knows his weight down to the half pound, and he has to make sure that every single bit of it comes to bear on Tom. Chest to chest, hips to hips, legs to legs, swaddling Tom under him and making him to be _still._

Tom will always sigh, has to with all that weight settling down on his chest. It’s mostly a sigh of exasperation, of defeat, but there’s a little bit of relief in there, too. At least Chris assumes as much, because Tom never argues beyond that point, just puts his hands on Chris’s back.

“All right, Chris?” Tom asks.

“Getting there,” Chris says. This position always leaves his face half tucked into Tom’s pale neck, half resting on a shared pillow.

That’s usually about as much as they end up saying. Chris just shuts his eyes and feels the rise of Tom’s chest beneath his, a steady, strong push upward against Chris’s weight. It takes enough effort for Tom’s diaphragm to lift Chris up that there’s nothing left for his constant chatting. He’s forced to focus just on the unavoidably necessary task of breathing.

Tom’s hands persist in moving for a long time though, the only outlet left free to express what Tom suddenly cannot say. They slide up Chris’s back and down again, reach up to pull the elastic from Chris’s hair, eating up the intimacy, mapping Chris’s closeness. Here are your hips, Tom’s hands tell him, right above mine. This is the breadth of your shoulders over mine. The nape of your neck, your hair, the shell of your ear, I can do this. Chris curls an arm up and cups a hand around Tom’s shoulder to agree with him. It’s pleasant, easy, they fit together well. Chris has never been one to fight sleep or hide from it, especially not when comfortable and warm. His own eyes start to droop as Tom’s hands roam.

But there’s only so much that hands, even Tom’s hands, can say. They slow and still, hanging loosely around Chris’s waist and there’s nothing but the push of their breaths against each other. Matched and opposing, first Chris’s chest fills with an inhale pushing out Tom’s shallow exhale, and Chris’s content exhale is met with the slow lift of Tom’s inhale.

Chris waits until he’s just at the edge of real sleep before slipping off to the side next to Tom. By now Tom is calm, moving like he’s half drugged, mind caught up to and surpassed by his body’s exhaustion. Still, before Tom can turn over, reach out, say a word, Chris lays an arm over his waist, slides his leg over Tom’s. The weight of them soothes the last of any wakefulness away and Tom sleeps.

They might wake again in the middle of the night to sit up, disoriented and lost in the pitch dark of the room, and pull off t-shirts and kick off trousers. Tom or he might also stumble into the bathroom, feeling for the door, the light switch, a sharp stab of light that makes both of them groan unhappily as the other drinks from the faucet, or stands at the toilet. No matter the chore they set themselves to, it’s done in a dazed, sleepwalking state and afterward they slip under the covers, sometimes curled together, sometimes not, but always immediately comfortable. Sleep reclaims them without a struggle, and keeps them until the morning.

By trial and error Chris has found an alarm on his phone that’s of the right volume and tone to get his attention but that Tom won’t notice when he’s dead under. If he leaves the door open the sound of his shower is usually enough to help Tom wake naturally.

He goes into the kitchen, hair still wet, and finds Tom with a mug of tea in his hands and one for Chris sitting on the counter. Chris takes it despite that fact that - for all Tom’s God given talents - he makes a pretty underwhelming cup of tea. At least he does on mornings like this, when sleep holds onto him longer than it does at any other time.

“Morning,” Chris says, sipping.

Tom smiles. “I think I can manage some eggs if you want.”

Chris makes a face. Some day, when all of this is over he will never eat eggs or chicken again. He’ll live on bananas and bread and milk for a year at least. Tom knows enough by now to start pulling out the eggs out of the fridge anyway.

Chris drinks his tea while Tom talks.

“Wire work again today,” he notes. He glances at Chris, “I know you’re so excited.”

“Oh beside myself,” Chris rumbles dryly.

That sets Tom off and running because while he might understand the concept that someone may not be entirely enthusiastic about the day ahead that doesn’t mean he’s entirely comfortable with it. But everything he says is something Chris already knows. It’ll look great in the film. It’ll be worth it in the end. The most boring day of filming on the planet is worth the excitement of a premier. They are, Tom insists, infinitely blessed, but to Chris it sounds a little as if he’s trying to convince himself of that.

Chris finishes his tea and does not regret that it’s gone, thinking hopefully of the coffee he’ll have on set. He crosses the kitchen, silent on bare feet and wraps his arms around Tom’s middle. Tom stops talking immediately, just pushes scrambled eggs up from the bottom of the pan, feet braced to let Chris lean heavily against him. Chris squeezes his arms gently, steadily tighter until he pushes the air out of Tom’s chest. Tom goes still and exhales on a soft, whispered “oh.”

Chris lets a few seconds pass, two breaths exhaled softly over Tom’s cheek while Tom holds in his own, then releases. He pats Tom’s stomach twice, an affirmation, of what he doesn’t think either of them know, but he moves away feeling that everything is set aright. Tom inhales and turns the oven off. They eat breakfast quickly and in silence, Tom reading, and Chris texting Elsa. Tom clears that dishes and gestures at the stairs, meaning to take his own shower. Chris lifts his chin in acknowledgement, picking up his wallet and cell phone and sliding them into his pockets.

“See you on set.”

“Yes.” Tom’s smile is rarely anything less than sincere, but now his eyes are bright and open. After a shower he’ll be a new man, and Chris’s odd reputation will remain intact.


End file.
